


Your Mess is Mine

by GwenTheTribble



Category: The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bernardo is a good man and i love him, Childhood Memories, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Lenny learning to be a good fucking person, Love and Shit, M/M, Nightmares, Prayer, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Threats of Ketchikan, Vomiting, Withdrawal, breaking into a someones house because you love them, dirty stuff like intimacy and emotional support, i know Lenny has a twin bed but pretend its a double
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9893405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenTheTribble/pseuds/GwenTheTribble
Summary: Lenny fears the health consequences of Gutierrez's drinking after Spencer's death, and has an intervention.  Gutierrez is resistant, but eventually sees that he needs help.  Lenny wants to be that help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So just a heads up, there are some brief memories of Bernardo's abuse and some discussions of it, but its not graphic at all.

The Holy Father was up to something.  Which was very odd for his holiness, if Bernardo was being honest, which he felt that generally he was. His holiness wasn't much of a schemer, mostly his schemes were a two part trick of asking people to point to where they wanted to go and then sending them to Alaska regardless of where their finger had landed. Really, the Holy Father wasn't a fan of plots and whispering, he usually left that sort of thing to Cardinal Voiello if he acknowledged them at all. But yesterday he had seen Voiello and his holiness walking together in the garden, speaking lowly, as if they were talking about something important, but Bernardo himself had been present at their morning meeting and nothing of particular import had been brought up, especially by their current standards of calm that the doctors had been attempting to enforce since the attack the Holy Father had suffered.  None of the doctors were quite sure what had happened, or what had caused it, but they had plenty of theories.  He smoked to much, he had experienced to much lose, he didn't eat a balanced diet, he was vitamin deficient.  Really, that was certainly all true, but none of it seemed to have been the cause of his collapse.

Even still, everyone had insisted that his holiness not strain himself.  No one wanted him dead after they’d all finally gotten settled in and the Holy Father willing to show people his face and they all actually liked him.  His personal cook was even sending up full meals, despite his repeated requests for cherry coke zeros.  They had not managed to get him to give up the cigarettes, but really, they were only servants of God.  It would take their master to make the Holy Father quite smoking.  

He swung open the door to the apartment he’d been moved into since becoming the pope’s secretary. It was much bigger than he was used to, but positively tiny compared to the homes most of the other cardinals kept.  It had been Sister Mary’s room when she’d held his position.  It had a sitting area, with a nice painting on the wall of the blessed virgin in a garden, a bedroom with a bathroom, and a small kitchen, though he really wasn't much of a cook. He still kept his crate under his bed, feeling nervous and exposed if it was anywhere else, even though he lived alone. There were stuffed animals on his bed. All Bernardo wanted was a cup of tea and to climb in bed. 

He carefully held his hot mug as he stepped into his room.  He glanced up from his steaming cup. 

The Holy Father was sitting on his bed, stuffed bear in his lap.

“Oh!” He cried, startled, arms jerking and slopping near boiling hot tea over his bare hands.  

His holiness's mouth gaped in shock at Bernardo’s shout of pain, his hands burned.  The mug fell out of his hand and clattered on the ground, the handle breaking off and the rest of the tea splashing up on the hem of his robe. His holiness leapt up, going to the kitchen and returning with a towel before Bernardo could even react. The Holy Father patted his smarting hands dry, blue eyes filled with concern. He had become so kind since beginning his papacy, Bernardo could scarcely believe he was the same man who had made his sweet old cook cry. His holiness became kinder by the day.   Just yesterday, he’d given the order to cease barring homosexuals from being clergy, and it had made Bernardo’s heart sing. He shook himself from his thoughts and took the cloth from his holiness, kneeling down and mopping up the spill.  

“I’m sorry,” he told him.  

“I startled you, Gutierrez. I am the one who is sorry,” his holiness assured him as Bernardo gathered the broken pieces of mug. 

“Would you like to sit in the living room? I can make you tea,” he offered with a shy smile, throwing the shards of ceramic in the trash.  _ What is this about? What is he doing? He isn't going to send me to Alaska is he?  _

“That won't be necessary, Gutierrez. Why don't you sit.” His holiness gestured to the desk chair across from him. Bernardo’s heart rate immediately spiked.  He hesitantly sat in the chair, hands trembling slightly. 

“Holy Father, have I done something wrong?” He asked.

“Relax, your eminence.  I’m here because. Because I care about you and you have a problem.” 

_ This is about my drinking _ , he realized, even as the Holy Father bent down and pulled out his crate of bottles.  His heart sank as his holiness opened his beside table and pulled out a half empty gin bottle, the one he’d tucked there that morning.  The clink and slosh of the bottle as the Holy Father pulled it out was so shameful, even more so than the crate of bottles.  A saint, seeing this.   _ There's nothing to be ashamed of, because I don't have a problem.  It just helps me sleep. _

“I am concerned about your situation,” he began. 

“It doesn't interfere with my duties,” he attempted to protest.  

“No, it doesn't. You do an excellent job. I are merely concerned that this is unhealthy.” The Holy Father assured.  Bernardo nodded. 

“Thank you, but my health is my concern,” he told him quickly. 

His holiness unfolded his hands and held one up to stop him. 

“No, it is not,” he said simply. 

This took him aback. 

“Excuse me?” he questioned. 

“You are owned by God, as are all priests. I am God’s highest representative on Earth. I own you, and that liver of yours, which is surely half drowned,” the Holy Father insisted, shocking Bernardo into a stunned silence. “Gutierrez, you yourself must admit that you are not the same when you drink,” he continued. 

Shame welled inside of him, just as it had when he had to show the Holy Father his hotel room.

He fixed his eyes to the floor.  

“Perhaps, you may be correct,” he offered, “in your assessment.  But this is my private business.  I’m fine, really.” He tried to assure him.   _ I can’t stop drinking! I don't even have a problem.  _

“Maybe I should remind you of your personal state while you were in New York,” his holiness said.  Bernardo’s heart sank.  “Your room was a disaster. Newspapers scattered. Dirty plates. There were bottles everywhere,” his holiness added, eyes piercing like the nails in the hands of christ.  Bernardo flushed from embarrassment at the Holy Father’s assessment. 

“I do not wish to speak of this.”

“But you must. Now, you drink because you were abused, correct?” His holiness said bluntly.  Bernardo barely knew how to reply.  _ How does this man seem to know all my secrets? _

“I don't need help,” he tried to say. The Holy Father simply plowed ahead. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.  So what is it? Memories? Dreams?”  

Bernardo sighed.  It seemed there was almost no point in attempting to conceal things from his holiness. 

“Nightmares.”

His Holiness nodded.  

“Gutierrez.  Bernardo.  You’re lucky you haven't done permanent damage to yourself.  You must stop.” The Holy Father insisted. 

“I can’t.” Bernardo whispered. 

“Why not?”

The question took him aback. 

“I. I won’t,” was all he managed to reply. 

His holiness appeared as though he wanted to press on, but he just nodded, and stood. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bernardo.” 

“Yes, your holiness.” he said as the front door shut on the pope’s back, stunned that the Holy Father had conceded.   

The shame, thick and malevolent, cascaded over him as he stared at the door. He reached for the bottle on his nightstand. 

  
  


11 PM; Lenny POV:

 

Lenny paced the floor of his office. Yes the Blessed Virgin had given him firm but unintelligible instructions that he was gradually interpreting, though he told no one. But she hadn't told him how to convince his secretary to quit drinking, which was easily his most pressing issue.  Who cared about divorce? Why hadn't The Virgin given him addiction counseling?  Unfortunately, he had grown to value non formal relationships over the last few years, which a part of him was convinced was dangerous. The other part bloomed the closer he became with people.  He was still a coward, like all priests, but now his desire outweighed his fear. Regrettably, this led him to.. Worry about others.  He asked after people's health. He smiled at people. He helped hang the laundry. He’d given a class of fourth graders a tour and no one had cried. Sister Mary, Ma, had laughed when he’d told her all of this during a phone call. She’d said he was giving christmas back now that his heart had grown three sizes. He had not been pleased by this comparison. He was far more handsome than the grinch.  

If Gutierrez did not quit drinking, he’d get sick and die. Lenny had dreamt of it the past three nights, each dream the same.   It always started with his liver. 

He sat down, almost in a huff, putting his cigarette out in the full ashtray. If Gutierrez would only be honest with himself. He clearly had a problem.  Lenny did not want to lose his friend. He had already lost Andrew and Spencer and Esther with little Pious. 

Lenny leapt out of his chair and walked quickly towards Gutierrez’s apartment. He had no idea what he was going to say to convince him to stop drinking. God would simply have to give him the words when he got there.  

The night air was cool as he all but whipped through the halls and corridors. The lights were dim, everyone being asleep.  Finally he reached Gutierrez’s door, though it really was quite close to his own rooms, and rapped on the door, smarting his knuckles.  He waited for what felt like ages.  No answer.  There was a light shining from under the door.  He knocked again, loudly.  He was still knocking when the door finally swung open.  Gutierrez was leaning heavily against it, severely inebriated. His cheeks were reddish.  

“Holy Father!” He slurred in surprise, and attempted to stand straight.  He must have been very drunk, as he immediately swayed and fell forward.  

Lenny managed to catch him, arms hooked under his shoulders. Gutierrez’s face was against his chest, and he was mumbling, though whether he was speaking spanish or was simply to drunk to understand, he did not know.  

Lenny awkwardly shifted so that he had one of Gutierrez's arms slung over his shoulder, his other hand wrapped firmly around his friend’s waist.  He was still speaking, but Lenny paid it no mind, simply hauling the other man towards the bedroom.  He carefully lowered him onto the bed, into the pile of stuffed animals.  He managed to stay sitting upright, but was listing to the left.  He blinked up at Lenny, eyes glassy.  

“I’m sorry, your holiness,” he mumbled, words slurring to the point of near indiscernibility.  Lenny closed his eyes, and sighed. He would have prayed, if he thought he’d get a response. 

“It’s alright,” was all he could say.  His friend had already taken off his crucifix and scarlet sash, along with the stiff priest's collar, but he remained in his cassock. “You should get some rest,” he suggested, helping him to lie down on the bed.  He pulled off his shoes and he thought of jesus washing the feet of his disciples.  Gutierrez’s eyelids were drifting shut as Lenny made sure he was on his side and pulled his blanket up over his shoulder.  He went to the kitchen and got him a glass of water, putting it on the bedside table quietly.  

He turned to leave but was stopped by Gutierez.  

“Don’t leave me,” he muttered quietly. Lenny’s heart shuddered a little at how pitifully frightened he sounded.  

He thought for a moment. Would it even be that big of a deal if he slept here tonight? 

“Alright.  I’ll be right outside.” he told him quietly.  Gutierrez nodded into his pillow, already half asleep. He flipped the lights off as he shut the bedroom door halfway.

Thankfully, Lenny knew where things were since this had been Sister Mary’s residence.  He pulled a blanket out of a storage closet and settled in on the couch, slipping off his shoes and laying down, suddenly exhausted. 

 

The light hitting his eyes woke him up.  He squinted, trying to discern where he was, before it flooded back. 

He groaned a little as he sat up, back stiff.  Lenny stood up and poked his head into the bedroom to confirm that Bernardo was still asleep.  

He went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, glancing at the time on the stove.  It was early, before he usually woke up.  He curiously opened the refrigerator to find that it was empty.

The cabinets were mostly empty, aside from a few cans of soups. It made sense, Gutierrez did eat all of his meals with him since becoming his secretary.  Still, it was sad.  Sad in the way New York had been sad.  Something would have to be done. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, calling the kitchen.  

“Good morning your holiness,” a voice respectfully greeted.  

“Good morning.  I’ve decided to eat breakfast in Cardinal Gutierrez’s rooms.  Bring up our regular orders in half an hour.  Thank you.”  He hung up.  Gutierrez was still asleep.  Lenny patted his pockets, until he found his cigarettes.  He sat on the couch, thinking.  What would make his friend agree to stop drinking? He went over possibilities, but the only thing he could think of was that perhaps after the events of last night, he’d be more open to the idea.  

A knock at the door shook him from his thoughts.  He answered it, showing the nun where to put the tray.  

“Thank you,” he said as he showed her out.  He turned to see Gutierrez standing in the doorway, clothes wrinkled, eyes squinted against the light. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning your holiness,” Gutierrez greeted weakly.  He looked grey, almost ashen. His eyes had heavy bags under them.  “Why are you here?” He asked. 

“You asked me to stay. Last night.  After I helped you into bed.” Lenny explained.  Gutierrez’s eyes shuttered closed.  “I didn't expect you to remember.  You were in quite the state.” He continued. “Breakfast?” He asked, gesturing to the dishes at the table. They had been forcing him to eat a “balanced” diet, but he had insisted on still drinking his Cherry Coke Zero. Gutierrez squinted against the light, nodding slightly.  He took careful steps, as though each movement made him feel like he was dying.  Certainly made it look like he was dying.  Lenny took mercy on him and went to the windows, drawing the curtains shut. The room dimmed and Gutierrez, though still in obvious torment, seemed to droop with relief.  They sat at the table and ate quietly.  The cook had done an excellent job.  His eggs benedict was perfect, even if he didn't like to eat in the morning.  His friend picked at his oatmeal, but he did eat. 

“I’m sorry, Holy Father, that you saw that.” Gutierrez said quietly. 

“I am not.  We will discuss this later.  For now, we have work.” Lenny told him firmly.  He’d have to retreat and regroup before he could bring this up again. Perhaps later.  He nodded goodbye to Gutierrez, off to get dressed and begin the day, thinking all the way.

 

Bernardo POV:

His hands shook a little as he put the dishes in the sink.  The apartment was silent now without the Holy Father.  He returned to the hot bedroom, head pounding, stomach twisting.  He knocked back the last of the gin on his bedside table along with his last two ibuprofen, to ward off the impending hangover.  He stripped off his rumpled slept in cassock, trembling as he stepped into the shower.

 The water was almost unbearably hot, but he didn't turn it down, washing the sweat off his tired body.  His stomach flipped and he doubled over, heaving and choking up the oatmeal he had just eaten. He stayed in that position for a moment, letting the water beat his back, watching it wash his vomit down the drain.  He felt sick as ever. He straightened, standing motionless under the spray of the hot water until his phone rang in the other room, telling him it was time to go to work. 

Bernardo dried himself and dressed.  Glancing in the mirror before he left, he looked almost normal, which was as good as it was going to get. 

_ It is going to be a long day,  _ he thought as he stepped out the door.

 

Lenny POV: 

Gutierrez was barely even late.  Lenny appraised him carefully, looking over his clothes, his face, his bearing.  Had he not seen the cardinal’s state the previous evening, or even that morning, he wouldn't have thought anything amiss.   _ Is he particularly good at hiding it, or does he do this every night and that is why he looks no different? Both? Neither?  _ Voiello sat down as Gutierrez handed him his cigarettes and ashtray, along with his lighter. 

“Holy Father, how are you?” Voiello asked, sipping his espresso. 

“I’m alright, your eminence. How are you?” He replied, lighting the cigarette.  

Gutierrez prepared to take notes if necessary.  

“I am well, your holiness. Now, the hostage situation in Venezuela is the same,” a priest had been kidnapped by a cartel, “the prime minister has been very vocally supportive of your lifting of the homosexual ban.  In fact, a little to supportive. He has been suggesting that you did this at his urging.” Voiello reported.  Lenny rolled his eyes. Voiello gave a little nod in agreement. “As it were, most of the world is celebrating your decision.  There are of course pockets of conservatives who have protested, but they will adjust, in time.” 

He nodded at the report.  Nothing unexpected.  

“Good. Very good. Where is Sofia?” He asked. 

“She’s a little late, your holiness. Traffic.”  Voiello explained. 

“She should just live here.  Her commute would be much easier.” He remarked. 

“I do not believe Sofia is suited to Vatican life. The wifi is very poor.” The cardinal joked, sipping from his cup. Lenny gave this a slight smile.  Their relationship was miles away from what it had been initially. 

“We should get that boosted.” He suggested.  Gutierrez  nodded and made a note as the clack of Sofia’s heels announced her arrival. 

“Good morning Holy Father! Cardinal Voiello, how are you? Cardinal Gutierrez, isn't it such a beautiful day?” Sofia walked in grinning.  

“Good morning, Sofia. What has you in such a good mood?” He asked, taking a drag. He liked Sofia.  She was young, vivacious. 

“Your holiness, the press is loving your homosexual ban lift! For the first time, churches are reporting attendance levels higher than they were prior to your papacy.  The faithful that have been driven out have returned at this show of acceptance.”  She accepted a teacup from Sister Suree with a smile. “You might get your church of fanatics, yet.”  She remarked.

“Not at all in the way i imagined.” Lenny replied, looking out the window.  His plans had changed, and he was glad of it.  

“No, but that is often the way, with God.” Cardinal Voiello said happily.  

“Holy Father, I know you are not particularly fond of traveling, but you have been invited to attend the World Meeting of Families in America.  It’d be an excellent platform from which to announce the new policies you have been discussing.” Sofia suggested, hopefully.  

Lenny considered for a moment.  It was true, he detested travel.  

“Alright, I’ll go.” He decided.  Sofia’s brows raised in shock, a grin on her face. 

Voiello laughed.  Gutierrez gave a small smile from behind his notebook.  

Somehow, he had come to care for these people, despite all of his efforts to maintain formal relationships. 

“Fantastic! I’ll start making the arrangements immediately!” Sofia said excitedly.   Lenny had finally made her job easy for her. 

Her joy was infectious, but still, he was distracted by the events of the previous night. 

He glanced out the window as he put out his cigarette.  

“I think I’ll spend the day in reflection. Gutierrez, reschedule the rest of my appointments.” He declared, thoughtfully as he lit another cigarette. “Would anyone like to take a walk in the gardens?” 

  
  


3 PM, Bernardo POV: 

He and the Holy Father strolled through the gardens on their second walk of the day.  It was chilly, for March, and the nuns were listening to their radio.  They were on a secluded path, shaded by trees and surrounded by sweet flowers, their scent mingling with his holiness’s cigarette smoke.  

The Holy Father paused at a bench and sat, gesturing for him to sit as well.  

“I have seen God.” He said, as though he were mentioning something as simple as the weather.  

Bernardo looked at him thoughtfully. 

“In Venice?” he asked. 

“Yes. I could not see God, because i could not see them, my parents. I saw them in the crowd, that day. When i fell, God was in the sky.  Now that i know the faces of my parents, I may know the face of God.” He took a drag from his cigarette.

It was a miraculous story.   _ One befitting a saint _ , Bernardo thought.

“May I say something?”

The Holy Father nodded. 

“You can say anything to me, Gutierrez.” 

“It is not God you ever doubted, your holiness. It is that God cares,” Bernardo said.   

His holiness nodded. 

“I still find God to be infinitely silent, of course.  But now.  I know there is something in that silence. I must admit, i still find myself doubting if God can save me.” The Holy Father said.   _ Save him? _

“From what?” Bernardo asked, concerned. Was something wrong with his holiness?

“From myself.” His holiness told him simply, cigarette smoke floating up around his face.  This was very sad sounding.  So sad sounding that it hurt his heart.   _ Why does he need to be saved from himself?  _ Bernardo thought.

“It is merely a crisis of faith, your holiness. They pass.” He told him, trying to be comforting and hopeful.  The Holy Father nodded again, and gave a very slight smile. 

“So I’ve been told. Mine seems to be taking a very long time,” He remarked, putting his finished cigarette out.  “Perhaps if God broke the silence more often.”

Bernardo laughed a little. 

“With respect, your holiness, you are not an easy man.  Nor a quiet one.  God speaks all the time, but rarely in grand speeches and monologues like you.” He offered.

“Does God speak to you?”  The question did not surprise him. 

“Not directly. But I hear him,” Bernardo said.  

“What does he say?” The Holy Father pressed. 

“Vague and unhelpful things, very quietly. But I like to hear from him all the same,” he said good naturedly.  “Only a three times have I heard God speak clearly.  The first when I was sixteen and I heard the call. The second was when you told me to go to New York, and i was frightened. God reminded me that i had been called to serve him.” 

“The third was in New York, when I said come home and you stayed.” His holiness assumed.  

“No.” This surprised the Holy Father, brows raised. “I didn't hear God when I was in New York, not once.  I heard God clearly tell me to accept the position as your secretary.  That you would learn to be a better man.”  

The Holy Father lit another cigarette and seemed to consider this carefully.  

“So you didn't take the position because you wanted to,” he sounded almost. Hurt. 

“No, your holiness.  I wanted to.  But I could not accept if i thought you would not grow in your thinking.”  He assured. 

“If you didn't hear God in New York, why did you stay? When you had no leads?” His holiness questioned, gesturing with the hand that held the cigarette. 

Bernardo thought carefully for a moment. 

“Sometimes God does not speak, even for a long time. Most of the time, he is silent. It is up to us to continue on, as if we could hear him guiding us,” he said. 

The Holy Father put out his cigarette and stood. 

“Come, we shall pray for your nightmares.”  He declared, and led Bernardo to a flat grassy space, completely surrounded by trees.  He bade him to kneel with him.  

Bernardo did, heart in his throat.  He’d prayed for the end to his dreams for years without result, but his holiness was a saint.  His prayers carried weight in heaven. 

“God, it is time we spoke about Bernardo Gutierrez’s nightmares.  You must relieve him of them. Your son is tortured, you must stop these nightmares. You must.” The Holy Father’s voice became labored and choked, almost frightening.  Even still, it brought tears to his eyes to hear such a holy man pray like this for him. “You must relieve him.  You must heal him of his affliction. You must do this. You must. You must  You must. You must.  You must. You must. You must. You must.” The Holy Father gasped, face red, and fell against Bernardo, who hurried to hold him steady.  “Amen,” his holiness panted, into his neck.  A swell of longing filled him, but he quelled it as his holiness lifted his head and caught his breath.  “It doesn't always work the first time.  I prayed for Esther many times before she became pregnant,” he said, voice seeming to quiver with exhaustion.  No wonder the Holy Father collapsed in Venice, if he was praying like this.

“Come, your holiness, let us return to the papal palace.  You must rest.” He helped him to stand and stumble a few steps before he righted himself and walked on his own.  “Come your holiness, let us return.  You have overexerted yourself against doctor's orders.” He guided him back towards the main building.  The prayer must have really tired him, as for once he did not argue. The Holy Father nodded at the nuns who greeted him, but he did not stop to speak with them as he might have usually. 

“This way, your holiness,” he said gently, bringing him to his holiness’s private rooms and leading him inside.  The Holy Father sat down heavily on the couch as Bernardo hurried to the kitchen and began to brew a kettle of tea.  There was a knock on the door and he hastened to open it before the Holy Father could stand up.  “Rest!” He ordered, before opening the door to reveal cardinal Voiello.  

“I heard the Holy Father collapsed.  Is he alright?” He asked hurriedly. 

“How did you know i collapsed?” His holiness asked from the couch.  “Let him in Bernardo.” 

“I have my sources, your holiness.”

Bernardo allowed Voiello to step inside before closing the door and returning to the kitchen, where the tea was just about ready.  As he got out the cups and arranged a tray, Voiello questioned his holiness as to whether he needed a doctor.  

He brought out the tray with three mugs and set it on the coffee table.  The Holy Father sat up, though both he and Voiello urged him to be careful. 

“How do you like your tea, your holiness?” Bernardo asked as he poured a cup.  

“As coffee, but if it must be tea, with a spoonful of cane sugar.” For some reason this made Voiello cough, which he quickly controlled.  Bernardo handed the Holy Father his cup and offered one to Voiello, who declined.  He made one for himself with milk and honey while Voiello and his holiness discussed the incident.  

“Bernardo and I were praying in the gardens and I got a little tired, that's all,” the Holy Father lied.  

“He prayed himself into a fit and then could barely walk,” Bernardo said, sipping his tea. The Holy Father shot him a look, but he ignored it.  He was not a mousy shut-in anymore. It was his job to keep his holiness in good health, even when he had to fight his holiness to do so.  That included tattling to Voiello.  He would not repeat his mistake of listening to the Holy Father when he said he was fine.  

Voiello gave his holiness a reproachful look.  

“Holy Father, the doctors said that you must be relaxed,” Voiello insisted. Bernardo nodded in agreement.  

“The doctors have no idea what happened, and neither do either of you.  I’m alright.” His holiness said.  

Bernardo did not agree, but he decided to let it go.  His holiness was feeling well enough to sit up, drink tea, and argue, which meant he was feeling fairly well.  When he’d first woken up after Venice he’d been vague and unresponsive, unable to focus.  He slipped in and out of consciousness for days.  Bernardo had never been more afraid.  The rare times he could be convinced to leave his bedside by Voiello he spent asleep.  In those days his hands shook constantly, warded off with occasional secret drinks.  

Voiello glanced at his phone.  

“I must go.  Holy Father, please, rest.” He nodded goodbye to Bernardo before leaving.  

“I wonder where he goes,” his holiness said. 

“I’m sure he has his hands in any number of plots.  It’s no wonder he’s busy,” he replied as his holiness lit another cigarette.

“Gutierrez, perhaps now we should continue our previous conversation,” the Holy Father said. 

“I don’t think that is necessary, your holiness,” he tried to say. 

“Perhaps, i should just ask questions,” his holiness suggested.  “And you answer yes or no, with no justifying.” He said as he pulled a pamphlet out. 

“Fine.” If it got him off this alcoholic business, alright. 

“Do you try to avoid family or close friends when you're drinking?” He began.  

“Yes, but-” he tried to say. 

“Ah! No justifications.  Only yes or no,” his holiness said.  

“Yes,” Bernardo admitted.  But all of his close friends were colleagues.  It would be unprofessional to seek them out while he was drinking.  

“Do you drink heavily when you are disappointed, under pressure or have had a quarrel with someone?”  

Well. Yes, alright, he did, but that didn't make him an alcoholic.  Plenty of people did that.  _ Many of them alcoholics. _ A voice within him commented.  He shook that voice away.  He was not an alcoholic.  Not like his uncle, the man who abused him.  He wasn't like him.  He wasn't. 

“Well? Do you?” His holiness questioned.

“Yes,” he said, not able to help his honesty. 

The Holy Father continued with the list of questions. 

_ Have you ever blacked out? Do you drink in the morning? Have any of your blood relatives ever had a problem with drinking?  _

He was unsettled by how often he found himself saying yes.

“Well. According to this, you’re an alcoholic,” his holiness said, looking up at him. “I want to help you, Gutierrez.”  _ This is too much. I am not like Him.  I can't be.  _ His head swam with memories, his uncles weight, his hot boozy breath in his face.

Bernardo stood and nodded goodbye, and without a word, hurried to his own rooms and closed the door firmly behind him, locking it.  

He hurried to his crate of bottles.  Anything to make him stop thinking of this.  Of Him.  He pressed the bottle to his lips as a demanding knock filled the apartment. 

“Open the door. Gutierrez, please open the door.” His holiness called, but he ignored him, downing the alcohol.  “Bernardo, please.” He tried again.  He tore off his stiff collar as he pulled another bottle out of the crate, drinking it desperate and fast and guzzling.

  
  
  


3 AM, Lenny POV:

Lenny had returned to Gutierrez's door several times throughout the day, but he refused to answer when he knocked.  He could only imagine the state he was in.  It was going on 3 AM, but still, he found himself at the door again knocking.  Once again, he did not answer.   _ He could be dead _ , the terrible thought had occurred to him more and more the later it got, until finally he crept down to the garden and peered up at the windows. Aha! One was open. Unfortunately, it was on the second story.  He stood there for a moment, before dialing Voiello.  

“Your holiness? Are you alright?”  Voiello questioned the moment he answered, on the third ring.  

“I’m fine.” He said shortly, before describing the part of the garden to meet him at.  

Voiello was there quickly, wearing a monogrammed robe.  _ It was like he was trying to look like a villain. _ “Good, you’re here. Help me through this window.” He greeted.

“Excuse me?” Voiello said, his face twisted in shocked confusion.

“Get on your knees and boost me through this window.” He repeated. Really.  This wasn't a difficult to understand request.  

“Why?” Voiello questioned, looking up at the window. 

“Gutierrez will not open the door.  If last night is anything to go by, he is sure to be very drunk.  I merely want to ascertain that he is not dead.  Now, put me through the window or I will send you to Ketchikan, Alaska,” he all but hissed.  

Voiello did not look pleased.

“This is not good for your health, your holiness.  This is too much stress,” he protested, even as he kneeled down in the grass to boost Lenny up. He was certain Voiello would drop him, but apparently the threat of Alaska was enough to make a man strong. It was a struggle, the cardinal was old, but eventually Lenny was able to get hold of the window ledge and haul himself up.  He crawled through the window, nearly falling face first to the floor in the darkened room.  

He stuck his head out the window and waved goodbye to Voiello, before turning back to the apartment.  There was a light on in the bedroom and Lenny went towards it, pushing open the door.  Gutierrez was on the bed, asleep.   _ No, not asleep, passed out, or- _ he hurried to check his pulse.  He had one, praise God. Praise God.  He sighed in relief, even as he took in the state of the place.  Gutierrez had vomit down the front of himself, spills of alcohol soaking his cassock. He gently smacked his face, once, twice, and then again, harder this time.  His friend’s eyes fluttered and he moaned very weakly. Good. Now what? He couldn't leave. Gutierrez could die as soon as he left.  He looked around.  There were overturned bottles.  The whole place stank of alcohol, Gutierrez included. 

He gathered the bottles up and poured them down the kitchen sink, throwing them all in a trash bag.  With that finished he returned to the bedroom and opened a window for fresh air.  Gutierrez needed to be cleaned.  Would it not be wrong to not assist him?  Noah’s son had been cursed for not assisting his drunken father.  

He thought for a moment, before deciding.  He’d clean his friend, but he would not look.  

He hauled Gutierrez to his feet, and more or less carried him to the bathroom, where he carefully but awkwardly undressed him without looking, stripping him even of his underwear.  He took him into the shower and set him on the shower bench before he pulled off his own clothes, leaving himself in only his underwear. He turned on the water and angled it towards Gutierrez, and then took soap and began to wash him, scrubbing the chunks of vomit out of his beard, the bile off of his chest.  Lenny rinsed him and shut off the water, patting him dry with a towel quickly before he awkwardly clothed him in pajamas and half carried him back to bed.  Through all of this Gutierrez barely stirred.  He took the filthy cassock and threw it in the laundry hamper.  He made sure he was on his side.  He made sure to move the metal trash can to the side of Gutierrez’s bed, in case he was sick again.  

He put his white jumpsuit back on and returned to the darkened living room, sinking to his knees on the hard floor.  The moon shone through the open window as he spread his arms in prayer. 

“God, we must speak about your son, Bernardo Gutierrez. We can’t put this off any longer.  You must help him.  You must heal him.  You must heal him.  You must heal him. You must. You must. You must. You must. You must. You must. You must. You must.  God, if you will not heal him yourself, put it in my hands, tell me how.”  His breath was ragged, and he nearly toppled over, steadying himself on all fours.  “Amen.” He gasped.  He crawled to the couch and fell asleep instantly.

The sound of violent vomiting woke him. He sat up and stumbled into Gutierrez’s bedroom.  He was not in bed, but in the bathroom, head in the toilet. There was vomit on the side of the bed, and in metal trash can, as well as on on the rim of the toilet bowl.  Lenny kneeled down next to Gutierrez, who did not even lift his head to acknowledge him.  He was not particularly good at comforting people, but he tentatively reached out and touched Gutierrez’s back, patting him in a manner Lenny hoped was soothing as he heaved again.  He would just have to try to help.  He did not know how long they stayed there, but when he looked up, the first rays of sun were just lighting the sky.  

“I am sorry, Holy Father.  Please forgive me,” Gutierrez begged, head still hanging over the toilet.  

“You are forgiven, Bernardo.  I would forgive you anything,” he murmured, hand still rubbing circles on his back.  

Finally, when it seemed the vomiting had momentarily abated, Lenny led Gutierrez out to sit on the couch with the metal trash can clutched in his hands.  His friend sat down heavily and Lenny put the blanket in his lap.  The early morning was chilly, for Rome.   In the kitchen he poured a glass of water and dialed Valente.  

“Hello, your holiness? Is there something wrong?” Valente answered, sleep still clinging to his voice.  

“No, i am alright.  I am sorry for waking you.  Will you please bring ibuprofen.. And maybe Gatorade? To Cardinal Gutierrez’s apartment.” 

He hung up and brought the water to Gutierrez.  

“Drink this,” he said.  Gutierrez obeyed meekly, still holding tightly to the trash can.  “Do you think you could eat?” 

Gutierrez retched into the trashcan.  

“Alright, we’ll see about that later.”  

Lenny sat down on the couch and examined his profile.  If he thought he’d looked bad yesterday, he looked dead today. His eyes were bloodshot.  His face was so grey it was green.  He held his head in his hand, in obvious pain. 

Lenny stood and closed the curtains, just as he had done the morning before.  

“Thank you,” Gutierrez whispered, as there was a knock at the door. 

The cardinal winced hard at the sound.  He left his very hungover secretary on the couch and opened the door to Valente, who could not see Gutierrez from where he stood.  

“Good morning your holiness. Here is the ibuprofen and the Gatorade you requested.”  Valente greeted politely.  Lenny opened his mouth to say thank you, but was cut off by Gutierrez vomiting again.  Valente’s brow furrowed.  “Is Cardinal Gutierrez sick? Does he have the flu?” He asked, concerned.   He shook his head. 

“No.  Hold on.”  He said, going to the kitchen and bringing back the trash bag of bottles.  The chorus of clinking glass on glass made Gutierrez wince again, as well as completely gave away what was inside. Comprehension dawned on Valente’s face.  “Please, get rid of these.” 

Valente took the bag, nodding. 

“Do you need me to get anything else? Espresso? Toast?” He asked, voice now discrete.  

“No, thank you.  Tell Cardinal Voiello to take care of my appointments for the day,” he instructed as Valente nodded goodbye.  He shut the door and turned back to Gutierrez.  “Take these.  Try to keep them down,” he said, handing him two ibuprofen. 

They spent the morning like that, Lenny fetching water and rinsing out the trash can, Gutierrez vomiting and weakly apologizing.    

“Would you like to talk about it?” He broached the subject gently, around mid-morning.  

Gutierrez wrinkled his brow, and Lenny thought he was about to be be met with refusal once again.  To his shock, he began to speak.

“My uncle came to live with us when I was five.  He drank and was kicked out by his wife, which was why my father took him in.  The.. abuse, began shortly after.”  His eyes filled with tears.  “I have nightmares about it, which is why i drink.  I do not want to be anything like him, which is why it's taken me so long to admit I- I.  That I have a problem.  With drinking,” Gutierrez whispered.  He nodded.  It made sense.  Sad sense. 

Lenny looked him in the eye.

“Let me help, Bernardo.” he said quietly.  Gutierrez nodded slowly.

“Alright.” He agreed.  Lenny smiled. Finally.  

 

5 PM, Bernardo POV:

He hadn't had a drink in about 13 hours, but more important than the length of time was that he was choosing it. He had stopped vomiting, for now, and his holiness had managed to convince him to have some toast.  He was shaky, and his stomach ached, but whether that was from his day of throwing up or the withdrawals, he did not know.  His heart pounded erratically in his chest.  It was evening, and he and the Holy Father were taking a walk through the garden, his holiness smoking as they strolled. 

“Why do you have stuffed animals on your bed?” He asked suddenly.  

“Oh,” he said, blushing.  Obviously it was not normal for a grown man to sleep with toys.  “I don't like having space in the bed. It reminds me of.  I just cannot sleep with a lot of empty space.”  He clasped his trembling hands together as they walked.  

His holiness nodded.  

“Your hands are shaking.” His holiness observed. 

“Yes.”

“You probably won't be able to sleep tonight.”  

“No.” 

“You say it helps to have someone in the bed with you?” The Holy Father asked.  That hadn't been exactly what he’d said, but it was true.  

“Yes, your holiness,” he replied, wondering what he was getting at. 

“Perhaps you should come to my apartments tonight, so you aren't alone all that time,” his holiness suggested.  

Relief momentarily soothed his frayed nerves.  He’d been dreading the long lonely night.  

“Thank you, Holy Father.  I will.” 

His holiness nodded and smiled.  

“Good.” 

 

9 PM, Lenny POV:

He hadn't been planning to invite Gutierrez to his apartments until the invitation was already half said.  He had still been happy when it was accepted. 

He had a small bag with him, and he set it near the couch, where Lenny had been intending to have him sleep.  They prepared for bed, laughing at small jokes.  They said their prayers together and said goodnight to each other, but Lenny paused at the door of his bedroom.  

“Why don't you come sleep in my bed tonight?” He suggested, before he could think better of it. “If it will help with your nightmares.” 

Gutierrez looked stunned.  

“You have already been so kind, your holiness.  You do not have to do this as well. I do not wish to intrude.”  He said politely.  

“I have been nothing, least of all kind.  Share my bed.  For your nightmares.” He urged again.  

“I may have a nightmare and wake you,” Gutierrez said. 

“I don't mind,” Lenny promised.

“Only if it won't be a bother.”

“It won't be.”

Gutierrez nodded, and followed him into his bedroom, to his narrow double bed.  They climbed in together, knees touching, arms curling carefully around themselves.  Lenny had extended the invitation, but still. He hadn't shared a bed since he was a child.  

Eventually they settled in, shins and forearms touching.  

Sleep came gently. 

He was being smothered, but he was used to this by now.  He knew what to do.  He began to crawl, blindly, pushing through the tiny dead bodies.  They crushed him.  

Finally, the clean air of the court yard. It was nighttime, and the courtyard was empty.  Completely empty.  Not a soul in sight. His hippy parents were not there.  He hadn't dreamt of them since Venice.  No, but there were the footsteps.  Esther appeared, holding Pious, little baby Pious, not like the sturdy toddler he had seen on the beach from a distance.  She looked over her shoulder, and then spotted him, and ducked down another hallway.  He tried to call out to her, but she didn't hear. 

He chased after her, but she would not stop.  Occasionally he’d hear Pious’s cries echoing off the hallway walls.  

Her blond hair was a beacon in the night, even as she splashed through puddles to get away from him.  She never quite broke into a run, but always was too fast for him.  

“Esther! Esther, wait! Please! Tell me what i did!” He shouted after her, gathering up his cassock and chasing after her.  “Tell me what i did!” He begged.  

“Your holiness?” a voice broke through, as he still shouted after her. 

“Tell me what i did!” He cried again.  

“Holy Father!” The voice said again, shaking him awake.  He sat up in bed, chest heaving, sweat on his neck, in his hair.  Bernardo looked at him with widened eyes.  “You were crying out in your sleep, your holiness. It was a bad dream,” he assured him gently.

Lenny nodded, still panting.  

“Of course, of course,” he said, laying back down, pounding heart calming down. “Of course.” 

“Are you alright your holiness?” Gutierrez whispered. 

“I’m fine.  Fine,” Lenny mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.

Bernardo settled back down in the bed with him, more at ease than they had been when they’d first climbed in.  

This time, sleep brought him no dreams.  

He was warm when he woke up.  Too warm, but still, not so warm that he disliked it.  He drifted off again, thinking of how nice the warmth was.  

His arm was slung over Bernardo, he realized when he woke the second time. His arm over his chest, and his leg over his hip.  Bernardo-Gutierrez’s! Face was against Lenny’s chest.  His heart began to thump against ribs and he feared it would wake Gutierrez up. It would be embarrassing if Gutierrez woke up and found them like this. He carefully, painstakingly, disentangled himself from their intertwined position, hurrying to shower and dress. His phone buzzed with a text from Voiello.   _ Holy Father, i understand our friend Gutierrez has spent the night with you and has quit drinking.  May i be of assistance?  _ He knew Voiello did not suspect him of anything lewd. His blackmailing of Esther had proven that Lenny himself was impervious to such things.   _ Get me something on withdrawal _ he sent back, going back to getting ready. He had just finished tying his sash when Gutierrez awoke.  He sat up, sleep blurring his eyes.  

“Good morning, Holy Father,” he greeted.  

“Good morning Gutierrez.  Get ready, we have a busy day.” Lenny said.  

 

Bernardo POV: 

Bernardo readied quickly, hands shaking as he did up the buttons of his cassock.  His holiness waited patiently in the other room, smoking.  They walked to breakfast together, the sunshine streaming through thrown open windows.  

Domen was waiting for them, as always.

“Good morning, your holiness, your eminence,” the butler greeted kindly.  

“Good morning Domen,” they both greeted as they sat.  

One of the sisters brought them their plates, habit rustling quietly as she moved.  The thought of food turned his stomach, but he had some anyway, knowing he would need it after yesterday.  His cutlery rattled against his plate no matter how tight he held it, but no one commented. 

They ate in companionable silence, finishing at around the same time. 

“Let’s get started.” His holiness stood, Bernardo following him down the hall.  They took the long way, through the gardens.   

They walked through the orange grove where his holiness had juggled for him.

“How are you feeling?” The Holy Father asked.  

“Very bad,” he replied honestly, “but I will be alright Holy Father, thanks to you.” 

“Thanks to God and yourself.  I have done nothing.” His holiness insisted modestly.  He placed a cigarette between his lips, letting it dangle lazily before lighting it.  Bernardo watched as the Holy Father looked toward a pond covered in lily pads, his reddish lips wrapped around the cigarette.  His soft round mouth pursed, almost petulant.  _ Oh.  _ He thought.  _ Oh _ . He thought again, but squashed it.  

His holiness held open the door to his office, allowing Bernardo to pass him.  

Voiello was already seated, tapping on his phone.

“Good morning your holiness, Gutierrez.” Voiello greeted as they sat, getting up and fetching his holiness a cup of american coffee.  What had once been a power move was now a joke between colleagues, between friends. Bernardo suddenly felt very hot without the cool breezes of the garden, overwhelmingly so, but he ignored it, preparing to take notes with his trembling hands. 

“The hostage situation has resolved itself within the last half hour, your holiness. Father Peredo is fine.”  Voiello reported.  His holiness nodded at the news. 

“And the meeting with the prime minister, how did that go?” The Holy Father asked.  What meeting with the prime minister? When was that? Bernardo felt so foggy.

“He is arrogant, but i warned him against acting like he has any influence here.” Voiello said.  

His legs were shot with aches.  Voiello and his holiness went on talking, but he couldn't catch any of it. He could see their mouths moving, but there was a strange buzzing in his ears.  The room was so hot.  His heart was pounding erratically. 

The Holy Father looked at him, and his mouth moved.  _ Hmm? _  His mouth moved in the same shape again.  

“Bernardo?” 

Oh! The Holy Father was speaking to him.  

“Yes your holiness? I’m sorry, i seem to be distracted.” 

His holiness and Voiello were looking at him expectantly.

“His holiness was merely asking if you wanted to take another walk, Gutierrez,” Voiello told him, tone surprisingly gentle.  Bernardo’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as he nodded and stood, joints aching.  Voiello joined them on this walk. And he and his holiness discussed maintenance that was needed, and which restorations were necessary and which were only desired.  Thankfully, Bernardo did not have to try and take notes. Not so thankfully, this meant his mind completely departed him and would not return despite his half attempts to right himself.  His holiness must have sensed his confusion, because he did not ask him any complicated questions that would only embarrass him. Mostly, he was allowed to merely walk along with the two men and enjoy the gardens while they spoke, though his holiness occasionally reached out and placed his hand on his mid back to steer him.  

These momentary touches excited him, but he tried not to think of why that might be, though that seemed to be the only thing his brain was able to concentrate on.   _ Christ help me _ , he plead as they ducked inside the main building again.  He became aware that Voiello was no longer with them.  

He followed his holiness wherever it was he was leading him. A bone deep exhaustion filled him, and he trailed his holiness blindly, trusted him blindly.  He became aware that the Holy Father had his hand on his arm and was leading him carefully, pushing him down gently onto a soft bed. The Holy Father’s bed, he realized, looking up at his holiness, whose blue eyes were examining him carefully.

“Can you hear me?” His holiness asked.  

“Yes, your holiness,” he said, trying very hard to focus.  

“How are you feeling?” His holiness questioned, sounding concerned.  

Bernardo shook his head.

“Confused, your holiness.  I can't think.” The room was so hot.  To his vague surprise, his holiness pressed his cool hand to his forehead, and against his cheek.  He unbuttoned a few of the buttons on Bernardo’s cassock and slipped his hand inside to feel his chest.   

“You have a fever, Gutierrez.” He said, eyes scrutinizing him.   _ Oh, that’s why it's so hot,  _ He thought. “Get out of those clothes.  Go put on your pajamas and get in bed,” his holiness instructed. 

“I am alright, Holy Father, really,” he tried to insist.  

His holiness shook his head.

“No, you’re burning up. Go put on your pajamas,” he told Bernardo firmly.  Bernardo obeyed, retrieving his pajamas from his bag and changing into them in the bathroom.  His holiness waited for him outside, and then guided him to the bed, drawing back the covers and all but tucking him in.  “Go to sleep Gutierrez.”  His holiness said as he left, curtains drawn to dim the room.  

 

Lenny POV:

He had never cared for a sick person before, so he had just done what Ma had done when a boy at the orphanage had gotten sick.  

Lenny sat on the couch and pulled out the pamphlets Voiello had slipped him.  The first wasn't very helpful, but did mention that fevers were a symptom of withdrawal.  He supposed withdrawal was good, in terms of quitting drinking, but it did seem to be quite the ordeal.  He pulled out his phone and texted Valente,  _ Get me something for a fever _ . 

He read through the pamphlets while he waited.  There was a muted knock at the door, and he hastened to answer it.  Valente stood there politely with a brown paper bag in his hand.  They nodded hello and Lenny held the door open for him to step inside.  

“Is it Cardinal Gutierrez?” Valente asked quietly. “Is it because of his- his problem? Does he need a doctor?” He asked discretely.

Lenny took the bag and looked inside. 

“More ibuprofen, a thermometer. More Gatorade.  There's really nothing that can be done for a fever aside from wait, your holiness.” Valente explained.  

Lenny nodded.  

“Are you sure he doesn't need a doctor?” Valente asked again.  

He paused for a moment.

“Not yet.  Be prepared to call somebody discrete if he doesn't improve, however,” he decided.  If Gutierrez needed a doctor, it would have to be someone who would not gossip all over Rome about the cardinal they’d treated for alcohol withdrawal in the Pope’s own bed. 

Valente nodded and left, dismissed.  In the kitchen he filled a glass of water and brought Gutierrez the ibuprofen and the thermometer, gently shaking him awake. He was hot to the touch.  “Gutierrez?  Bernardo, wake up.”   

Gutierrez blinked blearily at him.  

“Sit up, put this under your tongue,” he said, handing him the thermometer. Gutierrez did it without a word.  It beeped and Lenny took it from him, checking the numbers.  101.6.  Not good, could be worse. “Here, take these.” He handed Gutierrez the pills and the water, watching as he swallowed. Lenny watched as he laid back down in the bed, eyelids fluttering shut.  Gutierrez breathed softly, and he crept out of the room. He sat down on the couch and flipped aimlessly through a book that he generally enjoyed, but these were not general times.  He kneeled to pray, rosary in hand, when Gutierrez cried out.  Lenny hurriedly pushed open the door to reveal his friend asleep, tossing his head back and forth, weakly thrashing against the sheets.  

“No, no,” Bernardo whimpered.  He was rooted to the floor watching as Bernardo plead. “No please!” He cried, propelling Lenny’s feet forward towards the bed.  He shook Bernardo awake until his tear filled eyes opened, gasping, chest heaving.  

“It was just a nightmare! Just a nightmare,” he assured Bernardo, his hands still clasping his shoulders. Bernardo was still breathing heavily, tears streaming, even as he nodded.  Lenny really was not good at these sorts of things.  He was as awkward at helping as at love.  Even still, he knew what to do.  He went around to the other side of the bed, slipped off his shoes, and climbed into the bed in his white cassock. “Lie back down, it's alright,” he told Bernardo.  “I’m here,” he assured him. Bernardo laid back down.  He was still very warm, despite the ibuprofen. 

They were touching at the hip as Lenny laid there, the room dark and warm and comfortable, his friends even breathing lulling him to sleep.  

 

The bed was roasting, blistering hot when he woke.  The room pitch black. Night had fallen.  He and Bernardo were pressed up against each other, nearly every part of them touching, Bernardo shivering.  Lenny fumbled for his phone and was blinded by it's light.  He squinted to read the time.  It was half past seven.  He got out of bed and put his shoes back on, sweat clinging to him, and turned on his lamp, casting the room in shadow.  He shook Bernardo awake gently, until he opened his dark eyes.  

“Yes your holiness?” He asked weakly, still blinking against the light. Lenny held out the thermometer.  

“Under your tongue.” He instructed.  Bernardo obeyed, sitting up.  It beeped.  104.5.  Frighteningly high.  “Your fever is very high.  I’m going to call a doctor.”  He told Bernardo, though he didn't know if his friend heard him.  

In the living room he dialed Valente.  

“Hello you holiness,” Valente greeted.  

“Valente, call a doctor,” Lenny said, standing at the window.  

“Of course your holiness.  I will bring them as soon as possible.”  Lenny hung up.  He thought of how Gutierrez had been sitting by his bedside when he had woken up, finally, days after he collapsed in Venice.  How Voiello had said the man could barely be convinced to go sleep.  

He turned on the living room lights in preparation. He tried to think of things to tell the doctor.  

Lenny paced the floor.  He hadn't worried for someone like this ever.  

A knock at the door lifted him from his anxious thoughts, and he hastened to answer it.  Valente stood there, next to a short man, a few years younger than Lenny himself. 

“This is Dr. Romano, he works here at Vatican City, Holy Father,” Valente introduced.  

Lenny scrutinized the doctor’s face.  

“Are you faithful?” He asked him.  

The Doctor looked a little taken aback, but nodded.

“Yes your holiness.” 

“Then swear to your Pope that you will be discrete about this.  I don't want this personal business all over Rome.” His tone was intense, line of his mouth firm.

“I swear, Holy Father.” Dr. Romano said seriously.  

Lenny gestured for them to step inside and closed the door behind them, leading him to the bedroom, Valente remaining in the living room.  

The lamp cast a golden glow, but the doctor flicked on the overhead light and approached the bed where Gutierrez was asleep again. 

“Tell me what's happened, your holiness,” Dr. Romano instructed, examining Gutierrez.  

“He’s having withdrawls. He vomited all of yesterday, and was very confused today.” He explained.  

The doctor looked up when he said withdrawals. 

“What's he stopped? Alcohol?” He asked, opening his black doctor bag.  

“Yes.”

Dr. Romano shook him carefully. 

“Cardinal Gutierrez? I am Dr. Romano. Can you sit up?” He asked Gutierrez, helping him to sit up.  “When was the last time you had a drink?” 

Gutierrez blinked, thinking.  

“I can't remember,” he told them, voice rough.  The doctor looked to Lenny. 

“Tuesday night.  40 hours or so.” He answered.  

The doctor nodded and took Gutierrez’s temperature.  

“How many years have you been a drinker, your eminence?” He asked.  

“Since i was 20,” Gutierrez answered.  

“Any seizures? Hallucinations?” He questioned them both.  

They both shook their heads. 

“Have you given him anything for the fever?” He asked, shining a light in Gutierrez’s eyes.  

“Ibuprofen, several hours ago. It didn't do much.” 

The doctor nodded, and listened to Gutierrez’s heart.  

“For now i will give you a mild sedative.  I’m going to take a blood sample as well. I may come back depending on the results.  Cardinal Gutierrez, Holy Father, if seizures or hallucinations occur, you must call the emergency medical facility.” Dr. Romano informed them, taking out a prescription pad.  “I will give this to Father Valente and i will call the pharmacy to have it filled immediately.  He should take two tablets every 5 hours.”   

Lenny nodded, carefully listening to the instructions.

The doctor tied a tourniquet on Gutierrez’s arm and drew the blood.  Lenny was uncertain if this was standard medical procedure for a house call, but it seemed alright.  Dr. Romano placed the vials in his bag and put a bandage on Gutierrez’s arm, untying the tourniquet and shutting his bag with a snap.   
The doctor nodded to Gutierrez and gestured for Lenny to follow him to the living room.  

“Father Valente, go have this filled.” He handed Valente the prescription slip, who left after saying a brief goodbye.  

“Remember what i said about seizures and hallucinations. People can die from withdrawal, your holiness.” The doctor told him seriously. 

“Yes, I’ll keep an eye out.” Lenny promised.  

“He will need a support group of some kind, Holy Father.  To maintain sobriety, i mean.  There’s a group that meet here in the Vatican, informally. Out of respect to privacy, i may not say who, but I will try to put them in contact.”  

Lenny nodded.  He hadn't thought that far ahead.  

“Goodnight Holy Father. I’ll test the blood.  If he needs further treatment, I’ll have Valente bring me back, alright?” He said, picking up his bag to leave.  

“Goodnight, Doctor. Thank you for coming.”  Lenny said, seeing him to the door.  The apartment’s quiet was broken by another knock on the door.  Did the doctor forget something?  He opened the door to reveal Sister Suree holding a tray, with a plate of food.

“I’m sorry to bother you Holy Father, but you didn't come for dinner.  Domen sent me,” she told him, a little shy.  

He was taken aback slightly.  Sister Suree had never come to his door and it was strange to see her there, but he stepped aside for her to come in anyway. 

“Thank you, Sister Suree,” he said, as she placed the tray on the table.  

“You're welcome your holiness,” she replied politely.  “Goodnight.”  She said, and opened the door.  

“Goodnight,” he told her as she left.  He sat down to eat, though he really wasn't very hungry, especially for the larger meals they’d been sending since the doctors had gotten involved and forbade meals that only consisted of Cherry Coke Zero.  He ate most of it anyway, as he hadn't had lunch, and someone was sure to give him a lecture about his health if he he didn't.  

A great yawn overcame him as he sat there, though he had spent so much of the day sleeping.  There was another knock at the door.  He wasn't used to so many people at his door.   Valente stood there holding a white paper bag.  

“The prescription, Holy Father.  Do you require anything else?” His assistant asked.  

Lenny shook his head.

“No, Valente.  Thank you.” He said, meaning everything he had done that day.  

Valente tipped his head and smiled.

“It is always an honor to serve your holiness.  Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

 

He closed the door and went back to the darkened bedroom and the sleeping Gutierrez, who was still shivering.  

“Gutierrez, wake up. Gutierrez.” He said gently, patting his shoulder.   “Bernardo.” 

Gutierrez opened his dark eyes and tiredly sat up on his elbows.  “Here, take these.”  He said, handing him the pills and the glass of water.  Gutierrez took them, obedient as a child. “Go back to sleep.”  He urged, before he changed into his pajamas in the bathroom. 

Gutierrez’s eyes were still open when Lenny came out of the bathroom and got into bed.  

Lenny turned off the lamp, plunging them into darkness. 

“Thank you, your holiness.” Gutierrez said softly.  

“There's no need to thank me, Bernardo. Go back to sleep.” He told him, their sides touching, Bernardo still burning up.  The cardinal heeded his instruction and settled in.  Without thinking about it, Lenny slung his arm across Bernardo’s chest, and fell into a deep sleep.  

He dreamt he was in Africa again, kneeling in the heat.  Ma came and stood next to him, handing him the cigarette she had been smoking.  “It’s a beautiful place, Lenny.” She commented. 

“”It truly is, Ma.” He agreed, bringing the cigarette to his lips.  

“Do you still miss Andrew?” She asked, eyes on the horizon.  

Lenny looked up at her, but the sun blinded him, it's rays of heat piercing him.  

“Yes, of course.  He was my oldest friend.” He answered, wondering where this was going.  He was distantly aware that he was in fact dreaming, and people in his dreams rarely stopped to speak with him.  “Why?”

Ma shrugged.  She had a soccer ball in her hands.  Did she have that before?

“I’m in love with Cardinal Voiello, you know.” She said, conversationally.  “He loves me too.”

He nodded. 

“Yes, i know.”

“Like mother like son,” she said, tone touched with laughter. 

He squinted up with her. 

“I’m not in love with Voiello, Ma.” He was appalled.  He could do better than Voiello.

She laughed, a heaving breathy laugh.  

“I meant the Cardinal part,” she said, still laughing. 

What?

“Ma?” He asked, still squinting. 

“He’s hot.”  She said, not bothering to explain.  Who was hot?  “He’s hot, Lenny.  Wake up, he’s hot.” His eyes snapped open, but he wasn't looking up at the crucifix as usual.  He was looking at the corner of the room, and in front of his eyes, what was that?  He tried to focus on it, but it was close, and fuzzy without his glasses.  He pulled his head back a little, and looked down his nose.   _ Oh, it's an ear. _  Bernardo’s ear.  Oh.  He was curled around Bernardo, he realized with a sudden jolt of clarity.  They were… Spooning.   _ Dear God. _  Not only were they spooning, but Bernardo was like a furnace, still.  Lenny inched away from him carefully and slipped out of the bed and the room.  The sitting room was filled with blazing mid morning light.  His dinner tray was gone.  Apparently, the staff had gotten the message that he wasn't to be disturbed.  

He took the red Gatorade out of the small refrigerator and brought it back to the bedroom, along with the next dose of pills. He set them down on the nightstand next to Gutierrez, still disconcerted by his dream, and opened the heavy curtains to let in the light.  Gutierrez woke, blinking against the light, squinting up at him.  

“Good morning Gutierrez. How do you feel?” Lenny greeted, holding out the thermometer.  

“Good morning your holiness. I feel a little better, i think,” he replied as he took the thermometer and put it in his mouth.  It beeped, and Gutierrez dutifully handed it back to him.  103.2.  Not great, barely good, but much better.  He smiled a little, pleased.  His temperature was lower, Gutierrez said he felt better, he seemed better.  Good. Very good. 

“Take these, and try to drink all of that Gatorade. You’re probably dehydrated.” He ordered, sending Valente a quick text to bring up toast and Lenny’s breakfast. 

“You have been too kind to me, Holy Father.  More kind than i deserve.” Gutierrez said hesitantly. 

Lenny cocked his head, looking at him intently.  

“There is no kindness that you don't deserve, Gutierrez.” He told him, matter of factly.  Bernardo ducked his head, bashful and shy.  There was a knock at the door.  “Come, sit at the table.”  Lenny said, going to open the door, Gutierrez, following him, both of them still in their pajamas.  Valente held another tray, smiling good naturedly.   

“Good morning, your holiness, your eminence.” He greeted cheerfully as he brought the tray to the table.  There was one plate with an omelette, a glass of Cherry Coke Zero, and one with slices of toast, with various jellies on the side.  “Do you need me to get you anything else, your holiness?” 

“More Gatorade, Valente.  Gutierrez is dehydrated.” Lenny requested.

“I am alright, your holiness.  Please, don't trouble yourself more than you already have,” Gutierrez tried to insist. 

“You had next to nothing to drink yesterday, and you have a fever. You’re dehydrated.” Lenny told him firmly. “Sit down and eat, you're going to get light headed.”  He added, turning back to Valente, whose mouth was pressed down hard, stifling a laugh. “Care to share what's so humorous?” 

His assistant looked at the floor, embarrassed, but looked back up at them.  

“You two just look very domestic, is all, your holiness,” he explained.  _ Domestic? _ Lenny thought, as he sat down across from Gutierrez at the table.  “I just mean to say, like an old married couple. It is sweet.” Valente tried to explain.  Lenny shot him a look over Gutierrez’s head.  “I will go get the Gatorade, Holy Father.” His assistant all but fled the apartment. 

“Eat your toast and drink or you will make me a widower,” he told a quietly smiling Bernardo.  Despite the ominous message, Bernardo smiled even more. He dutifully began to nibble at his toast.  

 

Bernardo POV:

His head felt as though it were going to crack in half. Every bone in his body was throbbing in pain. His stomach churned threateningly.  He was intermittently boiling hot or freezing cold. His heart darted in his chest. Even with all of this, he was grateful for his holiness. If his knees could be convinced to kneel, he’d thank God even more than usual for the friendship of the Holy Father the next time he prayed.  

He and the Holy Father were sitting together on the couch, reading. Bernardo was still in his pajamas at the Holy Father’s insistence, but his holiness had changed into the simple black with a tab collar of an ordinary priest. 

Bernardo drank the Gatorade Valente had brought at his holiness’s urging.

His holiness was wearing his glasses, and was reading one of his Elmore Cohen books, while Bernardo read his bible.  His medication was making it very hard to concentrate, as his eyes kept drifting shut and trying to lure him to sleep. He blinked, long and slow against the daylight.  His hands relaxed, almost drooping.  Perhaps if he set his bible aside, and rested his traitorous eyes for a moment, they’d allow him to read. He allowed his eyes to drift shut, and kept them shut.  His head drooped.  Almost involuntarily, he found his head meeting the Holy Father’s shoulder to rest. The shoulder stiffened slightly in surprise, and Bernardo almost lifted his head to apologize before the shoulder relaxed.  The Holy Father shifted closer for him to be more comfortable. 

Vaguely, beyond the fog of medication and fever and withdrawals, he knew that this was not etiquette, not something a Cardinal did with his Pope.  Barely something a man could do with another man without raising eyebrows.  Even still, his holiness let him keep his head there.  Bernardo drifted off, sinking into the haze of beckoning sleep.  His holiness was still reading. 

He did not fall totally asleep, but instead wandered between that place between sleep and waking, feeling the rise and fall of the Holy Father’s breath, hearing the turn of his page, light pressing at his eyelids.  

He woke suddenly at the sensation that he was falling.  His neck was cramped, and sometime in his sleep he had shifted from his holiness’s shoulder to his reclined chest.  Bernardo slowly turned his head to peek up at the Holy Father, who was also asleep, his chin against his own chest. 

Despite Bernardo’s feeling of having been hit by a car and dragged through a field of mud, he smiled at the sight.  The Holy Father needed his rest, and he felt guilty for how much sleep his holiness had recently lost on his behalf.  

Bernardo was freezing.  He shivered, pulling his blanket around himself tightly and scooched up closer, into the warmth of his holiness.  He shivered, head throbbing, but managed to fall asleep again. 

 

Later, Lenny POV:

He hadn't meant to fall asleep.  He had merely set aside his book and glasses for a moment, and the next thing he knew, a knock at the door was startling him awake.  Bernardo sat up looking dazed from where he too had been napping, against Lenny’s chest.  His friend tried to stand, but Lenny put his hand out to stop him. 

“I’ll get it.” He told him firmly. Gutierrez obeyed.  

Sister Suree stood at the door with a tray of food for lunch.  

“Good day, Holy Father,” she greeted as she walked in and set the tray down on the table, arranging the plates.  “Good day, your eminence.” She said with a sweet smile.  Not surprising.  When Lenny had first asked around about what kind of a man Monsignor Gutierrez was, he was incredibly well liked.  Everyone had said he was a good, kind, dutiful servant of God. He had believed them, and he had been right to do so. 

“Hello Sister Suree, how are you?” Gutierrez inquired as cheerfully as he could.  

“I am well, your eminence. How are you? Sister Bice has made you her special butternut squash soup,” the Sister said, going to the kitchen and brewing a kettle of tea as well as a pot of american coffee. 

“I have been better, Sister. Tell Sister Bice gracies for the soup, it is my favorite.” Gutierrez replied as he got off the couch, leaving his blanket, and sat down at the table.  She came out of the kitchen with another tray, this one with a tea cup and a coffee cup, along with a creamer, a bowl of sugar, and honey in something that looked like a syrup dispenser.  After arranging the cutlery and crockery, she stood back and gave a respectful nod.

“I will do that, your eminence.  Enjoy your meal, Holy Father, good day. Good day, Cardinal Gutierrez.” She bade them farewell and left, her habit swishing as she moved.  

Lenny ate a spoonful of the soup.  It was hot and buttery, sweet and savory.   _ I have been wasting sister Bice’s skills _ , he thought as he took another bite. Gutierrez smiled at his first bite of soup, not one of his shy hesitant smiles, but a glowing one of contentment. It made Lenny’s chest feel funny.  He shook the feeling off and ate more of his soup.  

“If you’re feeling a little better, maybe we could go for a short walk.  It would be good for you to have fresh air.” He suggested.  Bernardo looked up and smiled bigger at the suggestion.

“That would be nice Holy Father.” He agreed.  They ate their lunch quickly, Gutierrez only finishing half his bowl, before Gutierrez changed into his cassock.  Lenny only had to insist a little that Gutierrez wear a coat before he agreed.  

It was fairly warm in the gardens, but not many people were outside.  They walked slowly through a grove of trees so thick and twisted, the tops of some of the branches brushed the ground, and they were shielded from the rest of the grounds.  

“The others don't know what I’m sick with, aside from Valente.  If they did, they wouldn't be being so kind.” Gutierrez commented quietly as Lenny lit a cigarette. 

“You are selling yourself short again.” He told his friend, but he could see Gutierrez was not convinced.  “When i asked about you, nobody had a single bad thing to say.  You are a very liked man here at the Vatican.  You’d still be liked if they knew.” He tried to assure him.  Bernardo looked away, a small smile on his face. Lenny got the funny feeling in his chest again, but it was bigger, warmer, knowing he had put that smile there.  

“Thank you, Holy Father.” Bernardo said, voice filled with sincerity.  He was sincere man. 

“Call me Lenny,” he said suddenly, without planning. He seemed to be doing that around Gutierrez a lot lately. 

Gutierrez’s eyes widened.  

“Oh Holy Father, i could not.” He said insistently.  

“Why not?” Lenny asked. 

Gutierrez looked baffled. 

“Because you are the Holy Father!” He said, as if this explained everything. 

“Yes, and i am telling you to call me Lenny.” 

Gutierrez walked along with him for a moment, considering. 

“If I am to call you Lenny, you must call me Bernardo.” He finally said.  Lenny smiled. 

“Yes, i will call you Bernardo.” He agreed easily. “We should go inside, it's cold.” He suggested.  He didn't want Bernardo to get any sicker. 

“Holy Father- Lenny. May I ask.  You have not mentioned your parents since Venice.  Since you saw them.  Why is that?” Bernardo asked, hands clasped. 

Lenny looked at him, scrutinizing his face. 

“I did what Michael said to do.  I went to Venice and I buried two empty coffins.” He offered. 

  
  
  


Three days later, Bernardo POV:

He wanted a drink more than he wanted to live, but he wanted to be like his uncle less than anything, except to disappoint Lenny, so he would not drink.  He said it to himself over and over, to convince himself. 

_ I will not drink, I will not drink. I will not drink, I will not drink.  _

The doctor had come back and examined him, given him a note from a Father Jannsens that invited him to their next support group meeting. Bernardo had decided to go, though he was nervous. 

He was much better now.  His fever was gone, his headaches were tolerable. He could eat whole meals without feeling sick.  He still had nightmares, but Lenny would wake him up and tell him that he was there with him until he could fall back asleep. They were still sleeping in the same bed, but Bernardo knew it was time for him to return to his own apartments, his own lonesome bed.  He had relied on Lenny’s kindness for long enough, and he could not do so now that his withdrawals had faded.  

He found him sitting alone in the gardens smoking, in the private grove of trees.  Lenny sat on a bench in his white cassock, and gestured for him to sit down with a smile. Bernardo sat down hesitantly.  

“You have been very kind to me these past few days, Lenny.”  He saw that Lenny was going to protest, so he hurried along, “do not say that you have done nothing. You have done everything. Everything.  I just want to thank you for this, before i return to my own rooms.”  

Lenny’s brow furrowed slightly.  

“Your own rooms?” He questioned. 

Bernardo nodded.

“It’s time, is it not?  I’m feeling better.” 

Lenny shook his head. 

“What about your nightmares?” Lenny asked. 

“I am a grown man. I can do this on my own,” he said, though he himself doubted it.  The thought of the long lonely nights already frightened him.  

“You do not have to, however.  Stay with me, in my rooms.” Lenny said, looking at him intensely. “Let me help.” 

Bernardo knew he should say no.  Knew it was dangerous to keep sharing the bed of a man with eyes that blue.  

“Stay with me, Bernardo. I want you there,” he said.  It had been a mistake to ask Lenny to call him Bernardo, he knew that now that he heard it so often come from that soft round mouth.  He was powerless when the Holy Father called him by name. 

“Alright.  Alright.” He agreed.  

  
  


Later, Lenny POV:

They had established a bedtime routine of changing into pajamas and reading together on the couch, discussing the day, making little jokes to each other.  They’d say their prayers together. Then they would climb in bed, carefully not touching as much as possible.  In the morning, Lenny always woke first, and they were never not touching when he did.  He’d inch away and out of bed, going to shower, and Bernardo would be awake before he turned off the water.  

That night they read their books and kneeled by the bed, praying quietly, and climbed into the narrow bed.  

Lenny had another bad dream, but Bernardo woke him and told him it was alright until his heart had stopped pounding against his chest.  

In the morning, he was wrapped around him again, his face pressed to the back of Bernardo’s neck, arm around him, knees in the crooks of knees.  He pulled his head back and looked out the window.  It was early morning, but he began to disentangle himself anyway.  Bernardo shifted, waking slightly.  

“Don't leave me Lenny,” he murmured, still half asleep.  He paused and looked at the sleeping man, and the way the morning light shone on him. Lenny pulled Bernardo closer, and pressed his face to his neck, shutting his eyes.  In his dreams, he didn't need to chase after anyone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Mini playlist of songs that remind me of this fic and Lenny/Bernardo in general:  
> Cherry Wine by Hozier  
> Foreigners God by Hozier  
> All Those Friendly People by The Funeral Suits  
> Fire and the Flood by Vance Joy  
> Mess is Mine by Vance Joy  
> Sidekick by Walk the Moon
> 
> Bonus:  
> Imagine Dragons covering Blank Space


End file.
